


O, Come Let Us Adore Him

by theblindtorpedo



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Falling In Love, Family Bonding, Fluff, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-06 05:44:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5405213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles for Fiddlestan Holiday Bonanza. Featuring: Channukah, Christmas, winter, snow, good food, warm sweaters, enough fluff to rot your teeth, and two cute old men falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Joy, Gold, Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley is cheating as usual and doesn’t realize the effect he has on one delicate old man.

The table erupted in a chorus of protests as a cackling Stan scooped up his pile of winnings.

“Hey, don’t give me that. It’s all chance right?” Stan winked at his incensed audience. “That’s how the game is played.”

“We’re the kids, you’re SUPPOSED to let us win!” Dipper said, hands on his hips. Grenda growled. Candy narrowed her eyes. Mabel was eyeing Stan’s hands with intense concentration and suspicion. The other two adult members of the group, a Fiddleford McGucket and a Soos Ramirez, accepted their fate with respective shake of bald head and a hearty chuckle from behind buck teeth.

“Cheating again, Stanley?” Ford called from the yellow armchair, not raising his eyes from the newspapers spread across his lap. Some had fallen to the floor at this feet, their dates winking out, nineteen nineties and two thousands. He still had a lot of history to get caught up on and did not take to the distractions of dreidel spinning. They had a sizeable enough group already crowded around the small table, he reasoned.

“I’m teaching them a valuable lesson about dedication to one’s craft.”

“What are you even going to do with all that chocolate at your age? You’ll give yourself a stomachache before you can eat it all.”

“It’s the principle, Sixer! I own all the gold in this house and if you want it you’ll pry it out of my cold dead hands.”

“Ya sure? I reckon I got ya there,” Fiddleford grinned, tapping a fingernail against his one gold tooth cheekily. He did not expect Stan’s response would be to grab his jaw; a yelp of surprise died in the Georgian man’s throat as his mouth was pulled open. Fiddleford felt the firm pad of thumb on his chapped lips and haired knuckles brush against his throat. He gulped, seized with anxiety, suddem apprehension. Stan’s grip was firm, but gentle as he examined Fiddleford’s teeth (or lack thereof), seemingly unaware of the distress of his victim.

“Nice one McGucket. I’m jealous. That tooth looks brighter than any of the chocolate I got.” He laughed. So close that his breath fell upon Fiddleford’s already warm cheeks. “You sure you didn’t just nab one of my coins and put it in your mouth?”

“Can you imagine what chocolate teeth would taste like?” The stars in Mabel’s eyes were almost visible.

“W-well, I wouldn’t know, darlin’,” Fiddleford whipped his head out of Stan’s grip to smile tenderly down at the young girl, ruffling her hair, although his hand was shaking. “I might if I had one of them coins, but yer Grunkle don’t s-seem ta want ta share.”

“Yeesh,” Stan said, “Well, if you want it THAT BADLY, I suppose you all can have some of my bountiful treasure.” He shoved the mountain of gelt into the middle of the table, all exaggerated acquiescence.

“AHHH!” The children screamed, a flurry of limbs as they threw themselves across the table, trying to grab as much as possible before the others could.

“I feel like this isn’t in the spirit of the selfless nature of the holidays,” Ford said.

“Oy, peanut gallery, either shut your yap or actually join in on the fun.”

“I am doing very important work.“

“Do I have a brother or a wet blanket?”

“Stanley!”

“Excuse me,” Fiddleford murmured, barely heard over the multitude of voices, the children’s squeals of delight and the twins’ banter. He slipped into the hallway, a beeline for the bathroom. He did not see Soos raise an eyebrow at his exit.

Once alone, Fiddleford leaned against the closed door and pressed the tip of his fingers to his lips, the memory of Stan’s touch still hovering there like the bite of peppermint that sent electric signals throughout his entire mouth.

“Oh, ya done messed up again, McGucket. However, are ya gonna get out of this now?”


	2. Ice, Charity, Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan is too proud to ask for help, but Fiddleford isn’t waiting to be asked.

The rain had turned to snow during the night and the once dripping eaves now hung with picturesque icicles. Fiddleford could hear a sharp shattering sound as another, inevitably too heavy, crashed down. He did not like winter. No matter how idyllic the scene from behind the frosted window, the sounds and lack of color still struck an innate fear in his old bones. Too many memories of shuddering against a small fire, teeth chattering, and hands so cold he could no longer feel them. Fiddleford stared down at his hands now, slowly bending and unfurling his fingers. They ached. That was a revelation, one of the first that came with the trickling return of his sanity. His body always hurt and it had never bothered him so much until now. At the times when he lay consumed by the pain, unmoving on the small couch he’d been granted, he wished for a few awful minutes to return to the numbing indistinctness of life before. When did this new overwhelming awareness start, he could not recall. But as he stood now, although his fingers throbbed lowly, he would not wish to be anywhere else. The kitchen was still cold (heating was minimal and blankets aplenty), but he still had somewhere soft to sleep and a shield from the elements. And there were other reasons to wish to stay in this house.

“What’s going on?”

Stan stumbled into the kitchen, eyes bleary, cowlick slicked even higher than normal. Fiddleford had to resist the instinct to tamp down the stray piece of hair.

“I thought I’d make y’all something to eat. Pay ya back for all yer kindness, but,” a forlorn look at the empty cabinet he had just opened, “it don’t seem there’s anything ta make.”

Stan peered over his shoulder, confirming Fiddleford’s statement with a grumble. He proceeded to check the fridge, finding it similarly devoid of food, save for a carton of milk and a quart of orange juice.

“Thought I was gonna get a nice restful morning,” he muttered as he turned away. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Keep the kids occupied if they wake up early.”

“Oh no nonno! Ya just got up I wouldn’t force ya to go out it’s frightful cold!” Fiddleford dithered, “We got some cereal here I reckon that’ll be good enough fer now.”

Stan raised his hand firmly. “Don’t you dare give them that sad excuse for a breakfast. They deserve more than that. I’ll go get us some real food.”

“All right, I suppose, if ya really want ta.” Fiddleford stared at his feet, jumping slightly as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Stan guided him to the chair.

“Stay here and don’t do anything weird while I’m gone.”

“Hehe, y-yessir.”

Fiddleford heard Stan shuffling on his coat and scarf, the bang of the door as he left, all familiar sounds, comforting. He closed his eyes, slumping slightly in the chair, head resting on the table. He was falling slowly into a light doze when the roar reached his ears. Stan was swearing loudly, each expletive cut short just as he remembered the children might be awake, but the magnitude of his frustration still carried through the thin window.

By the time Fiddleford was outside, ready to investigate, Stan’s anger had still not abated. The con man was crouched next to his car, the machine completely frozen over and unmoving. Stan was pounding the ice with the edge of the snow broom, punctuated by ineffectual jabs with his fists that Fiddleford suspected was more for his benefit than the trapped car’s.

“Why that is a real pickle yer in. Can I help ya?”

Stan turned around with a snarl that evaporated as soon as he saw the speaker. He blinked in surprise and then turned away to face the car again, and Fiddleford would swear he looked embarrassed, if not for the fact that there was nothing Stan should feel embarrassed about. Frozen cars were a commonplace occurance. It must be the chill and exertion that put that tint to Stan’s cheeks.

“Nah, go back inside. Just having some trouble with the old gal, but don’t worry I’ll set her up in a minute. I’ll have food on the table right away.”

“Ya don’t need to do this.”

“Yes, I do!” Another fist against the whitened car door. Somewhere a bird frightened, triggering a small avalanche of snow as it took off from a branch.

Fiddleford bit his lip and retreated back into the house. Stan was obviously set on bringing his family breakfast. But Stan's pride was irelevant to the plan currently manifesting in Fiddleford's head.

He had brought a satchel with him when he took residence in the shack, it now sat on the edge of the sofa in the breakroom. The bag was large and bulky, but sifting through the odd collection, he easily found what he was looking for.

Stan was still glaring at his car when the yell came.

“OUTTA MA WAY, STANLEY!”

“ARHGGH!”

Something flying above him, jumping, and Stan fell back on his haunches in time to see Fiddleford McGucket alight on the top of the car, long arms swinging the pickaxe down with a deafening crack. The ice splintered immediately at contact, white lines branching out, a calamitous shifting sound as it fell in heavy chunks off the car.

“Holy Moses,” Stan breathed, a hand clutched at his racing heart. Fiddleford was still standing on the roof, leaning on the pickaxe, looking pleased with his work. Then that wide-eyed grin turned to Stan.

“I reckon ya can get her to work now.”

“You’re crazy.”

Fiddleford’s face fell.

“In a good way!” Stan sputtered. He couldn't deal with that look of hurt. “Hey, hey, that was really, uh, nice of you to help.” Stan scrambled to his feet and grabbed the door handle, kicking some ice out of his way. He looked up at Fiddleford one last time before sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Get off my car and go back inside. If you get sick I’m not taking responsibility for it.”

Stan’s voice was hard, but Fiddleford felt light and airy as he hopped back and trotted to the Shack, the revving sound of the engine behind him. He was old and small, he was still frustratingly incoherent, and he knew he had not much to give in return for all the kindnesses he received. But the Pines’ were his friends. The first friends he’d had in thirty years. If they asked him to walk through fire he knew he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't try this at home, kids.


	3. Song, Wonder, Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite the multitude of Jews, Christmas preparations are under way in the Mystery Shack!

There was music. Real music, not the bright pop that Dipper would vehemently deny or the crooning male voices of Mabel’s boy bands. The sounds of a banjo fluttered and danced through the house and Stan had a pretty good idea from where it came.

“Woah, dude, I didn’t know you could play those songs on a banjo! I thought you could only use like, bells and stuff.”

“Oh my god, Soos you’re right! We need more bells!”

“Mabel, you’re already wearing bells!”

“Don’t worry, I have more.”

The twins dashed past him, an aggressive metal tinkling in their wake. Stan had forbidden the wearing of that sweater, forty inlaid bells shaped a reindeer on a snowy white background, but when Mabel Pines had her mind set it was not to be moved. So, she wore the sweater anyway and now held her brother’s hat in her hands, Dipper tripping over himself to catch her and save it from the same decorative fate.

The banjo was still playing, the song changed.

“Hey, I know that one! My Abuelita sings that all the time. But only in Spanish. I don’t even know all the English words. Which is weird cause they’re playin’ it in the Home Depot all day.”

Now the speaker's low voice overlapped the plucking of strings, it was singing an off-key, but recognizable melody, charming in its enthusiasm.

_Venid y adoremos,_

_Venid y adoremos,_

_Venid y adoremoooooos,_

_El Cristo el Senor!_

Stan made his entrance, hands on his hips. “I heard the word Christ there. What are you tryin’ to do? This is a pagan house.”

“Oh, man, sorry Mister Pines, I wasn’t even thinking!”

Soos was posed over the massive tree they’d brought in with ample help from the Courderoy family. It ascended to the ceiling, almost scraping the beams. He was standing atop a red stepladder, pudgy fingers draping sparkling silver tinsel that crisscrossed with lines of red string dotted with popcorn. A bright star stood atop and around the bottom was a bright blue knitted cozy, obviously the work of one enthusiastic twelve-year-old girl. On the ground were laid out newspapers, paints and round balls and hooks strewn. Mabel and Dipper had been in the process of making ornaments. There were ten already completed, each adorned with distinct snowflakes, complex and glittering, festive yet unassuming. Stan had never celebrated Christmas before, his own questionable Jewish upbringing and years of solitude cemented the fact, but with so many joyous faces in the house he had been persuaded of a secular celebration as long as his work was minimal.

“Looks good,” he huffed.

_O, come let us ah-dore him, o, come let us ah-dore him . . . hmm hmmm_

In his admiration of the tree he had forgotten there was someone else in the room, the resident banjo player. Fiddleford seemed to also have forgotten, for he was staring intently at the strings, absorbed in his music.

_O, come let us ah-dore him . . ._

“I didn’t know you could sing.”

The older man looked up, blinking in surprise.

“Ahm, sorry, if ya rather I didn’t. Ya know bein’ not inta religion or anythin’ I can stop fer ye. I don’t go in much fer church now ya know, but its . . . well, it helps me remember. I was a Christian man, ya know.”

Stan wondered what that was like, the desperation to remember. He tried so hard to forget his own early life. Fiddleford McGucket was his antithesis in many ways. Among these were his musical inclinations. He had the voice of an angel, soft and lilting in song.

“No. No. It’s fine. Its,“ Stan coughed, “it’s nice. Gets in the spirit I guess.”

Fiddleford's smile was so wide it lit up his entire face. How could he say no to that? Stan had to accept that he would probably be hearing a whole lot more about Christ than he ever did before. And to his astonishment he realized he was looking forward to it.


	4. Cold, Goodwill, Merry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let the falling out of friends be a renewing of affection.” - John Lyly

Fiddleford’s residence in the Pines house did not happen right away.

In fact, in the aftermath of Weirdmageddon, returning the children to their parents while fronting as a responsible adult, cleaning up the town, rebuilding the shack, all of it meant the well-being of Fiddleford McGucket was low on Stan’s list of priorities.

He was not purposefully being inconsiderate. From his point of view Fiddleford was doing fine for himself. The older man had been reunited with his son and seemed to be on cordial, if not quite friendly terms. Fiddleford’s strength and agility was a useful tool in reconstruction and the townsfolk quickly took to utilizing his many talents, be it restructuring a generator to climbing a house to lay shingles on a roof. Thus, his personable attitude and desire to please made him an oft-employed member of the community, as beggars could not be choosers, and his reputation for thoroughness and quality of work spread. So, it was that Stan saw the gradual building of respect for Old Man McGucket and he was glad and felt no need to do more than be civil towards the other man when he saw him. They both were busy so that soon he rarely saw Fiddleford at all.

It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving and there was a deathly chill in the air, reminding Stan of what was to come. He hugged his coat closer as he jogged along the sidewalk leaving the car parked a block behind him.

Fiddleford was slogging down the street in a rush, a somber look in his eye. The man was wearing his old overalls, although they were washed, and a denim button up shirt underneath. Somewhere he had found a pair of sandals on his bandaged feet, but they were three months out of place. His eyes darted fitfully, unfocused, so that he collided with Stan, who caught him about the shoulders. Stan could feel Fiddleford’s cold skin through his own thin gloves.

“Jeez, McGucket. you tryin’ to kill yourself? Where’s your coat?”

“Coat?” Fiddleford ran a hand through the small amount of hair on his head, “I don’ have one.”

“What? It’s almost December.”

“I’ve been warm enough! Just gotta get home to the Junkyard can whip up a good ‘ol fire fer these old bones. These bandages keep me warm well enough.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Stan shoved Fiddleford away from himself, ineffectively trying to tone down his shock.

“I thought- I mean what are you even doing with the money you’re getting now?”

“Money?”

Stan snapped his fingers. “For all that work you’re doing. I know you almost personally built the museum back up yourself.”

“Oh, they didn’ give me money fer that.” Fiddleford smiled like what he said was perfectly natural.

Stan frowned. “The City Hall boiler?” Shook head. “The arcade electricity?” Another negative. Stan took a deep breath, a deep anger starting to pound behind his eyes.

“You’ve been doin’ all this work for nothing?”

“Oh no, they give me food sometimes. A full sandwich a day it's a dream come true. Haven’t brought home anything from a dumpster in ages. Ma wife isn’t happy bout that, to be honest, aha.”

“You have a WIFE?”

“My raccoon, she’s a darlin’ you’d love her. Would ya want to come to the junkyard some time ya can meet her! I don’t get any visitors!”

Stan scrubbed at his eyes. He was plagued by a vision of poverty, stained by his own memories: falling asleep on hard ground so as not to feel pangs of hunger, sucking on your own hands to keep them warm, an alcohol fueled fire in an old trash can. Then a soft touch pulled him back to reality, Fiddleford’s slim fingers curling around his own and staring up into his face with painfully misplaced concern.

“Are ya all right?”

“Holy shit. You’re somethin’ else.”

Fiddleford pulled away as if castigated, prepared to slink away in shame, but Stan grabbed him around the shoulder steering him back in the direction of his car.

“Come with me.”

“What?” Fiddleford squawked, “I haven’t done nothin’ wrong, I swear!”

“That’s right. You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. I’m taking you home.”

“Mister Pines, please! Ya can’t do this.”

“I can’t just let you live on the street. I’m not that bad. And if you’re gonna be livin’ in my house you better call me Stan. None of this Mister Pines crap, you’re not a kid.”

“Stan,“ Fiddleford rolled the name around in his mouth.

“Yeah, Stan . . . ley. Stanley.”

Fiddleford’s next words were whispered. “But won’t your brother be awful mad if I show up? I don’t wanna burden him. He don’t like me. He won’t like me like this.”

“He doesn’t have a choice. And neither do you.”

Fiddleford begrudgingly slipped into the passenger seat as Stan’s hand gently pushed him in. Then Stan swerved around, until he got to the driver. Fiddleford jumped as a hand brushed past him as Stan’s arm rested on the back of the seat, as he turned to watch as he backed out. The engine rumbled as they headed in the direction of the Mystery Shack.

Fiddleford was silent, kneading the edge of his overalls.

“Hey,” Stan finally said, after several minutes. Fiddleford raised his head.

“Just be yourself okay. Ford can’t hate you. I mean do you hate him?”

“No! I could never! Stanford is a good man.”

“Unfortunately. But you know what McGucket?” Stan turned, and the look on his face frightened Fiddleford. It was soft. “You’re better than him. If you can forgive him he can forgive you. Just be yourself.”

Fiddleford licked his lips and looked away. “I can do that, Mister Pines.”

“Stanley.”

“Stanley.”


	5. Family, Glimmer, Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some familiar faces return to Gravity Falls for the holidays.

It was 5:30 in the afternoon and the world was already dark.

“What time are they coming?” Ford asked, for the tenth time.

“I’ve told ya, I don’t know!” Stan growled, squinting down the dark road. Fiddleford was clinging to the bus stop pole by one hand, the other wrapped around his chest as he shifted nervously from foot to foot. Dark and cold, dark and cold . . .

Suddenly, an arm snaked around his shoulder and then a blanket like weight draped over him. Stan was still staring off between the trees as the left side of his coat was open so that they shared the space in between, and he pulled the smaller man closer, pressing them together so that a welcome warmth began to seep into Fiddleford’s side. Ford was unperturbed by the temperature. When questioned he had muttered a cryptic “I’ve had worse,” before pulling his own heavy coat tighter. It was the same he’d had in the portal, pitch black, heavy and mysterious. Stan suspected it was not all fabric, unknown defensive mechanisms probably built into the lining. If he could reign in his pride perhaps he’d ask Ford how it worked.

“They’re here,” Ford said. Stan was about to challenge his assertion when he too registered the glimmer of headlights on pine needles. The bus bumped lazily towards them, rumbling to a halt.

Mabel was off first; her eyes scanned her two Grunkles and widening at seeing Fiddleford, who gave a bashful smile from over the collar of Stan’s coat. Then, her once ecstatic face scrunched up. There were actual tears brimming at the corners of her eyes.

“Sweetie, what’s the matter?” Stan was kneeling immediately, all concern.

She swiped at her face, looking up with an expression of utmost misery.

“I don’t know who to hug first!” she cried.

The group erupted in laughter.

“Well, to be honest I’m hurt, kiddo. I thought I at least deserved first hug honor after all those Stancakes I labored over all sumer.” Stan picked her up in one swift motion and the woods echoed with girlish squealing as she was swung around.

“Hello, Dipper.” “Hi, Great Uncle Ford.” Ford’s hug was less exuberant, but no less genuine. Once Mabel was again grounded the two twins switched spots, Dipper receiving an additional hair ruffle from Stan and Mabel kissing both Ford’s cheeks while she hung from his neck.

Now everyone was looking at Fiddleford.

“You look so good, Mister McGucket! Who made you this sweater?” she said, bounding up to tugging at the red fabric. Ford raised his hand in answer, and balked as Mabel spun to unexpectedly high five him.

“Yeah, you’re like . . . extra healthy,” Dipper offered. “Have you got more hair?”

Fiddleford swept a hand across his still sparse scalp.

“I reckon I do,” he said in wonder. How had he not noticed his hair coming back in?

“Kids, kids, don’t crowd the guy,” Stan said, “My butt is freezin’ and I’d like to get home before it falls off. Car’s this way.”

Stan had to drive, for although Ford was a back seat driver of the worst kind he still had not taken the time to relearn, and Fiddleford refused to go near anything that put him in control of the lives of others. So Stan had them careening through town with ample yells from his brother. Fiddleford said nothing, but Mabel still reached out to hold his hand and on particularly tough turns, she got a tense squeeze in response. The twins talked at him during the ride; he heard stories of report cards, and party planning, new clothing stores and bicycles, Dipper had broken a bone after falling out of a tree, Mabel had started a baking club at school, Dipper had won a Medal in his Science Olympiad, Mabel had landed the lead role in the school play. He nodded and hummed when appropriate, obviously receptive so that they were not thrown by his silence.

Once parked, Stan held the Shack door open, hands shooing everyone inside.

“Heat is money,” he said. “Wait, McGucket, hold on a sec. I want to talk to you.”

Fiddleford stopped short, sudden panic flooding his system. Stan sounded serious.

“Are you okay? I thought you’d be excited to see the twins, but you’ve been really weird since they got here. Super quiet.”

“I’m sorry am I botherin’ ya?”

“Oh, quit it with that. Now what’s up? I won’t have a sour puss ruining the twins stay cause he won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“Oh no, ruin their holidays! Tha’ be awful, oh Lordy, how could I ever! I’d feel awful, oh . . .” Stan realized he’d said the wrong thing, as Fiddleford started to tremble.

“Hey, hey, calm down. Just tell me what’s wrong okay? We’ll figure it out and then we’ll give the twins the best holidays vacation they’ll never wanna go home.”

Fiddleford bit his lip. “’sthehair.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s their hair!” he blurted. “Also their eyes and their smiles and their- their everythin’! I don’ belong here! They’re yer family, those kids belong ta you ‘n’ Ford. Tate used to have hair like that, soft ‘n’ deep brown like his Mother’s. He used ta smile at me, ‘n’ tell me about everything happening at school. And then . . . and then he stopped. Didn’t wanna talk to his old man anymore and I can’t blame him. I had my own chance and I done fouled it up and this don’ feel right, me bein’ here while you’re gonna be havin’ all this nice family time.”

Stan groaned.

“C’mere.”

He opened the door and marched towards the living room, where he found Mabel on the floor, cuddling a now significantly grown Waddles, Dipper and Ford at the table comparing their new journals. Stan clapped his hands to grab everyone’s attention.

“Listen up! Seems Old Man McGucket thinks he doesn’t deserve to be here cause he’s a ‘bad father’ or something like that. Well, I know bad fathers and that’s not him.”

“Fiddleford’s leaving?” Ford asked.

“So he says,” Stan said solemnly.

“What?! That’s terrible!” There was the reaction he was waiting for. Mabel dashed past his legs, Waddles squeaking at her heels, and then she was practically jumping on top of the old man cowering behind Stan. She grabbed both of McGucket’s cheeks in her pudgy hands.

“Now listen here, you! You are gonna stay here with us and we’re gonna have the best Chrismakkuh ever. I already decided what sweater I’m gonna make for you so you can’t wimp out on us now! You’re gonna help us light candles, and wrap presents, and make snowmen and tell us all those crazy old man stories I bet you have.”

“Yeah,” Dipper agreed, “I mean, sure, you messed up before, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy Winter now.”

“We’re going to make it better than any you ever had before! We’re gonna drink hot chocolate every day and make cookies and eat candy canes and go sledding and . . . and . . . and whatever else you want to do! And even if it’s something weird we’ll do it with you, because we like you!”

Fiddleford’s eyes flitted back and forth between the two children. You could hear the breath held in everyone’s collective lungs. And then, suddenly, he collapsed, falling into a waiting Mabel’s arms. He buried his face in her soft hair, brown and white twisting and mingling. She smiled serenely into the hug.

“My hugs cure everything,” she said, immodestly. Dipper nodded, pleased at the sight. She patted Fiddleford's back and he choked out a sob, clutching her tighter. She gave Stan and Ford a thumbs up over a bony shoulder. Fiddleford’s self-deprecation was strong, but nothing was stronger than the power of Mabel.

“You hear that McGucket?” Stan chuckled, “we’re your family now, whether you like it or not.”

Maybe love also had something to do with it.


End file.
